


Variations on the Theme of Turkey

by 2012bookworm



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-06 02:10:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12807327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2012bookworm/pseuds/2012bookworm
Summary: A series of interconnected vignettes about Thanksgiving at the Haus.





	Variations on the Theme of Turkey

Ford was in the Haus kitchen. Will blinked, and double-checked that it was, in fact, just after 6am, and not some later, more reasonable time. Not that Ford wasn’t welcome in the Haus whenever she wanted, but as far as Will was aware she hadn’t slept over which was the only reason he could think of for her being here this early in the morning. Muttering. Over a mixing bowl?

“Hi, Ford.” He tries. She jumps.

“Hey, Dex, um, what are you doing up?” She asks, falsely cheerful.

Will crosses his arms and leans in the doorway. “Came to grab a granola bar before my run. What are _you_ doing here?”

“Um.” He raises an eyebrow. She winces. “It’s Thanksgiving?”

“It’s 6am.” He replies flatly. “Even Bitty won’t start cooking until eight at the earliest.”

She hunches her shoulders, starts to smooth down her sweater before remembering, just in time, that there’s flour on her hands. Her voice, when it comes out, is small. “I just need to get it right.”

And shit, he didn’t mean to make her feel bad, he just… forgot. She projects so much confidence all the time, so much determined calm, that it’s easy to forget that she might not have the same tough skin, that while Lardo or Bitty or Nursey would have chirped back, or rolled their eyes, Ford’s still feeling them all out, still finding her place in this team, among all the crazy.

He sighs, uncrosses his arms, tries to make his voice gentle. “What do you need to get right?”

“The rolls.” She turns back to the mixing bowl. “It’s my grandmother’s recipe, she makes them every Thanksgiving. It – it just wouldn’t be _right_ , if I didn’t have them.”

“So you’re making them.” He says. It makes sense. Traditions are traditions, after all.

“Yeah, but I’ve never done it before, and baking isn’t really something I do. It’s not one of my skillsets.” Her tone turns self-deprecating. “Now spreadsheets. I’m good at spreadsheets.”

And Will’s having none of that. “And scheduling, and random item acquisition, and taking care of us, and about a million other things, Ford. Not just spreadsheets.”

She huffs at him, but there’s a smile teasing the corners of her mouth. He watches as she carefully adds milk to the bowl, a little at a time, mixing as she goes. He waits, for what he’s not quite sure, but he knows he shouldn’t leave, not yet.

“My gran – there’s a ritual to it, when she makes these. Or maybe it just feels like a ritual? Something… performative, at any rate.” Will watches as the stirring slows, becomes harder as the dough gets thicker. “I would watch, every year since I can remember. When I got old enough, I would hand her things. Even when I was too little to see over the counter, she’d drag over a stepstool so I could watch and ‘help’. But I – I never actually _made_ them. That was hers. It – I think it would have felt something like sacrilege.”

There’s a moment where they stand there, silent, before Will offers, “We don’t really do turkey.” He wants – needs – to answer one almost-confession with one of his own, to fill this grey early morning silence. “It’s – none of us really like it, so we’re always trying something new. We’ve done ham a couple of times, and Aunt Marta suggested a shrimp boil one year, and pot roast, but – I guess Thanksgiving has never been about the food, for me. Or at least not a specific food.”

Ford pours in the last of the milk and pulls out the spoon so she can start kneading with her hands before finally admitting, “It’s not about the rolls. Not really.”

“Oh.” Will watches her knead the dough, a frown of concentration on her face, biting softly at the inside of her lip. He’d forgotten that this is her first Thanksgiving away from home, which explains why she’s here, why she’s so determined to get this right. Why it’s not really about the rolls. His first Hausgiving he’d been miserably homesick and trying not to show it, but Bitty, of course, had noticed and given him a pie to bake, forced him to concentrate on something other than what he was missing. He made a pecan pie last year too, and is planning on making one today. He guesses it’s a new sort of tradition, for a new sort of family. One Ford’s not quite sure she’s part of, yet.

“Ford?” He says quietly. She looks up. “You’ll get it right.”

She smiles at him, small but real. “Thanks, Dex. Enjoy your run.”

He nods, pushes off the doorway, grabs a granola bar from the cabinet, and walks outside, trying to think of ways to make sure Ford knows she’s wanted.

 

***

 

Nursey is still asleep when he gets back, burrowed unmoving under the covers. Will rolls his eyes and does his best to stay quiet, though he’s discovered, through trial and error and poking him in several soft spots, that Nursey could probably sleep through an earthquake if he wanted.

He’s at least awake, for a certain definition of awake, by the time Will gets out of the shower, half-sat up and blinking sleepily at the door.

“Morning!” Will says brightly, smirking at the half-hearted glare it pulls from Nursey. He starts rummaging through the dresser for a semi-nice sweater. Bitty insists that they look at least a little nice.

“Why, Dex?” Nursey moans. “It’s a _holiday_. There’s no _practice_ , or _class_ , or _anything._ _Why_?”

“Because I –“ He finds a sweater, pulls it on, “ – need to help Bitty cook. And you –“ He crosses over to give him a quick kiss, “ – still need to write place cards.”

Nursey groans and drops back onto the bed, covering his eyes with one arm. “Why did I get put in charge of that again?”

Will grins down at him. “It was mutually decided that you have the best handwriting out of all of us. Also, none of us trust you in the kitchen.”

“Fine.” He grumps. “Now either bring me coffee or go away.”

Will leaves, but not before patting him faux-sympathetically on the shoulder and laughing when he wriggles away in disgust.

 

***

 

By nine Bitty’s already got a decent start on the food for the day. The turkey’s been in the oven for at least thirty minutes, there are two different kinds of potatoes boiling on the stove, and Bitty’s cheerfully mixing piecrust. Ford’s rolls are rising in a corner, covered by a dishtowel, and Will’s resisting the urge to peek, only partly because of the way Ford yelled at Nursey when he tried. She’s currently sitting at the kitchen table with Chowder, who’s chirping Nursey as he tries to write the stupid place cards. Every once in a while Bitty will pass by, glance over Nursey’s shoulder, and pronounce judgement.

“Why couldn’t we just type these again?” Nursey asks in a fit of frustration after hearing “Centered, honey, _centered_ ” for the second time.

Bitty sniffs. “Typed place cards are trashy.”

“ _We’re a college hockey team_.” Nursey half-howls, throwing his hands up.

“That’s no excuse for bad taste.” Bitty proclaims. Will catches just the edge of a wicked grin.

“Yeah, Nursey, no excuse.” Chowder repeats, delighted. Nursey glares.

“It’s ok, Nurse.” Fords says, patting him on the shoulder. “We know you have no taste to speak of.”

There’s a beat where they all stare at Ford, frozen, before the room erupts. Chowder practically crows, almost knocking his chair over in a rush to give Ford a high-five. Nursey looks betrayed but vaguely impressed. Ford ducks her head in embarrassment but is obviously pleased, darting glances up at the rest of the group with a little smile on her face, the grin widening when she sees Bitty doubled over wheezing. Will barely manages to muffle his laughter even after Nursey glares at him, feigning an intense interest in apple chopping.

It doesn’t work. Nursey comes up behind him and wraps arms around his waist. “I’m sure that includes taste in men.”

“I’m currently holding a sharp object, you know.” Will says, trying to sound menacing, knowing it’s ruined by his grin.

Nursey just leans around to give him a smacking kiss on the cheek, prompting Chowder’s yell of “Foine!” and Ford’s giggle.

Will, blushing, puts down his knife, and feeling, suddenly, inexplicably brave, in this warm kitchen surrounded by friends, turns around grabs Nursey, giving him a real kiss, long and sweet. He hears someone – he’s pretty sure it’s Ford – wolf whistle, and smiles into the kiss, something giddy bubbling up inside him.

When he pulls away, Nursey looks dazed, slack-jawed. Will pushes him, gently, back toward the table. “Go finish your place cards.”

Nursey nods, jerky, and walks back to the table. Chowder claps him on the back once he sits down.

“I think you broke him.” Bitty murmurs, coming over with celery for Will to chop. Will looks over and smiles, seeing his feelings reflected in Bitty’s own proud face. They are safe here, loved and accepted and known, the best thing either of them have ever felt, and Will’s fiercely glad that someone else understands.

 

***

 

Jack shows up a little before eleven, and Bitty leaves Will in the kitchen with strict instructions to watch the oven, before leading Jack up to his room, which is fair, it’s been a while since they’ve done much more than skyped. Chowder’s dragged Nursey away to help Ollie and Wicks clean the living room, and Ford – Ford is looking with great concern at her rolls.

“What’s wrong?” Will asks, peering over her shoulder at the rather small dough balls.

“They’re not rising. They should have almost doubled in size by now.” Fords says, biting at the inside of her cheek. “I – I must have done something wrong.”

 

“Ok.” Will says, taking a deep breath, trying to think of some sort of solution, when Ford turns on him.

“ _Ok_? It’s not ok! I messed them up! I said I could do it, this one thing, and I can’t! And now, now it’s just – _ruined_ – and, and I –“ She stops, tries to pull herself together. “Sorry, I’m being – irrational, it’s just rolls, it’s not the end of the world –“

Will pulls her into a hug. She stiffens, long enough that he almost lets go and apologizes, before collapsing into him, hands coming up to clutch at his sweater. He hears a muffled sniff, a few ragged breaths.

“It’s ok.” He says, and then winces. “Or…not. It’s ok to be upset, I mean? Just – we’ve got you.”

She laughs, and pulls away, lifting her glasses to wipe quickly at her eyes. “That was awful.”

He smiles. “Not so great at the reassuring thing.”

“Still. At least you tried.” She turns back to look at the rolls, as if maybe in the last few moments they’ve started to rise.

“Listen…” He starts, not sure if this is something he should even ask. “Can – can I see the recipe? Just, I bet you have time for another batch, and maybe I can help you figure out what went wrong, but if it’s some big family secret, I –“

She stops him with a hand on his arm. He’s sure he’s bright red, very aware that comforting people is not something he’s good at. “I’ve got a picture of it on my phone. And yes, I’d appreciate the help.”

“Ok.” He squares his shoulders, tries to look helpful. “I can even just hand you things when you ask.”

She smiles, and it’s a little wobbly but it’s getting there. “I always wanted an assistant. So –“ She checks her phone. “Grab the sugar, milk, and yeast, please.”

“Yes ma’am.” He says, turning on his heel to do as she says. They’ll make this work.

 

***

 

When they finally, finally sit down, after Tango and Chowder set the table and Whiskey walked behind them straightening all the napkins, after Ollie and Wicks filled every glass in the Haus with ice and convinced one of the new frogs to try Bitty’s sweet tea, after Jack, oh so carefully, carved the turkey and carried it to the table – which is really the kitchen table and two desks pushed together and covered in tablecloths to make a wonky, width-changing rectangle that protrudes out into the hall – Ford brings out her rolls. She’s been watching the time with trepidation, getting more and more fidgety, but these had risen, at least, and when Will opened the oven door to pull out the sweet potato casserole, they’d looked delicious, just not quite done. Now, golden brown and steaming and heaped in a basket Bitty had grabbed from somewhere, they look mouthwatering. Ford places them on the table with all due ceremony and Will has to stop himself from cheering. She sits down in the last available chair, her carefully centered place card balanced on a checker-patterned plate. None of the plates really match, and one’s plastic and covered in cartoon animals, but it works.

“Can – do you mind if we say grace?” Whiskey asks, oddly shy.

“Of course, honey.” Bitty replies. “Would you lead us?”

Whiskey nods, and holds out his hands to the people sitting next to him. It takes everyone a second to understand, but soon enough they’re all holding hands.

“Let us bow our heads.” Whiskey begins, and Will lets the words wash over him, the prayer similar enough to his own family’s to be familiar. He squeezes Nursey’s hand when Whiskey finishes, before letting go and looking up.

“What?” Bitty says after a brief pause where everyone looks to him. “Eat!”

They laugh, and Will grabs one of the rolls first, makes sure Ford sees him take a large bite, and gushes praise until she ducks her head in pleased embarrassment. Chowder asks him to pass the mashed potatoes, and Tango’s explaining something about cranberry sauce to one of the frogs, and Jack leans over to give Bitty a quick, discreet kiss, and Nursey steals a green bean from his plate, and Will is utterly, completely, content.


End file.
